Dear Louisa
by Snowsie2011
Summary: This tale is a response to robspace54's excellent story, Dear Martin. It started with a one chapter story, but then took on a life of its own. This is my rendition of what happened in that murky period between the failed wedding and Louisa's appearance on Martin's doorstep, six months pregnant with their child.
1. Chapter 1

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**This tale is a response to robspace54's excellent story, **_**Dear Martin**_**. It started with a one chapter story, but then took on a life of its own. This is my rendition of what happened in that murky period between the failed wedding and Louisa's appearance on Martin's doorstep, six months pregnant with their child. **

Dear Louisa

Chapter 1

_Martin_

I was alone.

The reception was quiet, the front door locked tight. I was done seeing patients for the day and Morwenna was off to do whatever she did with her evenings. I didn't ask, and she stopped volunteering after realising I wasn't listening.

Dusk was turning to night and my evening stretched out before of me – supper, read, bed. Sometimes I tinkered with my clocks, but they hadn't held much interest of late. Maybe I could walk up to the headland, get some exercise, but the first drops of rain splattered against the window. Soggy, dank, cold – this was an apt description of the winters in Portwenn. They had pushed more than one man to drink or madness, but the unrelenting dreariness had never bothered me. That is, until she had picked up and left.

The decision to go our separate ways had been a mutual one. Each had examined the facts and arrived at the same conclusion; our differences were too great, the hurdles insurmountable. We had called off the wedding, than a few weeks later she was gone.

The more I thought about the reasons why we had called off the wedding, the less they made sense. She couldn't make me happy, I couldn't make her happy, we couldn't make each other happy. But we had been happy, for a time. I wistfully recalled our evening walks along the cliff path after a simple meal followed by nights of fulfilled longing.

She had left a cheerful note in the letter box of the surgery. I'm moving to London, it had said, to teach Maths at a school in Balham. Best to make a clean break of it, she had written. By the time I held the thin sheet of paper in my hand, she was halfway to London and I had a reception full of patients clamoring for my attention. I had stowed the last vestiges of my failed relationship with Louisa inside my desk, and had gone on with my day.

I had reread her note many times over the past three months, usually late at night while waiting for sleep that wouldn't come. She had scrawled an email address at the bottom of the page. Had she wanted me to contact her? Or had this been done as an afterthought and without any expectations on her part?

I took Louisa's letter from the drawer. The paper felt soft and frayed in my hand, the well-worn creases starting to tear at the edges. I placed it on the desk and revived the debate I had had with myself these past months; should I contact her and if is so how? Calling had been out of the question - it was too immediate, intrusive. On the other hand, an email would give her time to decide whether she wanted to respond, or not.

I turned my gaze to the monitor glowing softly on my desk. It would take no more than a minute to type a message inquiring about her health and well- being. There was no harm in it- that's what people did all the time.

It took a few seconds to open the email browser and I hesitated over the keyboard before typing her address:

_LGlasson _

Hum, this must be her new place of employment, I thought. Well, here goes nothing:

_Dear Louisa,_

Well, that was a start.

_How are you? The weather here has been cold and wet. _

Don't be daft - she knows it is cold and wet having grown up here. It wouldn't do to use Cornwall's miserable rain clouds as an opening gambit. I deleted the line about the weather and was left with:

_How are you?_

Did she like London, her new school? Are her new pupils bright or dim like the ones she had in Portwenn? Was she living in a flat by herself, with friends or...

That last thought didn't bear thinking about. She couldn't have found someone that quickly, could she? Maybe this wasn't the right question to ask. I also deleted this and tried again:

_You left Portwenn before I had the chance to tell you…_

I stopped, my hands poised over the keyboard. What was it that I had wanted to tell Louisa? That her smile had brought light to my day, the sweet lilt in her voice had been music to my ears and her touch had taken me to places I didn't know existed? That Portwenn was a living hell without her?

No, I couldn't, wouldn't.

The cursor taunted me with its mindless blinking and I hurriedly typed:

_You left Portwenn before I had the chance to say you should establish with a new GP at your earliest convenience. Your latest blood tests continued to show mild anemia, and you will need a thorough examination along with additional testing. Please continue taking the iron tablets and keep to a diet rich in iron containing foods. _

I read it, and then wrote:

_I miss you._

The screen blurred, and I reached for the mouse, pausing for a second before sending my message to Louisa into the recycling bin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

Chapter 2

_Louisa_

The train was packed with commuters heading home at the end of a long work day. Above ground, the trees were bare of leaves and a late autumn chill augured the coming of winter. But below ground it was uncomfortably warm, and she loosened the woolen scarf wrapped around her slender neck. It was standing room only in the carriage, and she grabbed onto the nearest metal post, sticky with fingerprints and sweat, as the train lurched out of the station. In one hand she held a handbag and case, gently worn but still serviceable. Her coat was of dark navy wool, a nice match to the robin egg's blue scarf and matching gloves. These had been bought on a whim at a small shop across the street from the school, a pick me up after the difficult weeks leading to her move from Cornwall to London.

She shifted the case to her other hand, all the while keeping an eye open for an empty seat. As the train neared the next station, a woman draped in an emerald cape of moth eaten wool made for the doors and she quickly sat down with a sigh of relief. Soon she was lost in thought, gazing with unseeing hazel eyes at her reflection mirrored in the grimy carriage window, and did not pay any mind to the man who had taken the seat next to hers.

She had never imagined finding herself in London, teaching year seven maths to a gaggle of recalcitrant girls. They would much rather gossip about the latest boy band then learn algebra, and it had taken every trick acquired over her many years of teaching to keep their attention focused on the lesson at hand. Of course kids would be kids, and they were no different than the students she had taught at the small village primary in Cornwall. The school slowly came into focus in her mind's eye, a proud white washed building perched on a spit of land overlooking the sea. It had taken only a few minutes to walk from home to school, and she missed the cries of the seagulls and the sound of the waves gently lapping outside her cottage window.

Her commute was far different these days, a Tube ride followed by a hurried walk along pavements congested with harried pedestrians. Home was different as well, a bedsit tucked on the third floor of a

converted Regency terrace house. There were no sea breezes, but it was small and comfortable, offering a quiet oasis from the bustle and hustle of the city. The kitchen was basic and utilitarian, with a cook top, fridge and microwave, but the sitting room was lovely, with high ceilings and windows overlooking a wedge of sky and slate roofs lined with clay chimney pots stretching as far as the eye could see. Most nights she would come home and heat up something from the local Sainsbury's before settling down on the red chenille sofa that had been a lucky find at a charity shop off Belgrave road. There, she would do the days marking or watch mindless television for a few hours before turning in. It was best not to think too much, dwell on the past and dredge up regrets that would lead to a night of doubts and recriminations.

At first it had been easy to put all that had happened in Cornwall behind her. The job had kept her busy and all of her spare time had been taken up with finding a place to live. Fortunately, a former tutor from uni had asked her to house sit while she and her husband traveled to New Zealand to visit their daughter, and this had given her two precious weeks to sort out her living arrangements. Every morning she had sat in Magdalene's sun filled kitchen, scouring the to let ads on her lap top until she found what she was looking for - an affordable bedsit, possibly not in the best neighborhood, but close to the Tube and shops. It might have been easier to get a place closer to the school, but the small but neat terrace houses in Hammersmith were mostly occupied by young families, not an ideal location for a single woman trying to piece her life back together.

She was intent on recreating the part of herself that had been left behind in Cornwall, turn a new leaf and start fresh. The new job and flat was a step in the right direction, but she wanted to try new things and meet new people. She had picked up a flyer at the local leisure center advertising a single's book group and had looked in at the pub up the street, a traditional kind of place with dark paneling and a bar topped with shiny brass taps. In her small village the pub had been where one went for a bit of company or to hear the latest news and gossip. She imagined it wouldn't be any different in London.

But she had yet to sign up for the book group or stop in at the pub. It was easier to stay home and watch reruns of Midsomer Murders on the telly than go out to mix and mingle. She was tired at the end of the day, and the marking took up a chunk of her time, but she knew these were just flimsy excuses concocted out of the apprehension she felt at going at it on her own. But she wasn't in the habit of reneging on her promises, even if they had been made to no one but herself. And so after much deliberation, she had decided to go out to the pub for a drink.

After having pulled out half the clothes from her wardrobe, she had decided on her favorite jeans and lacey white blouse bought at a favorite shop in Truro. Next she had slipped on her only good pair of

boots, black leather with a three inch heel that gave her that bit of extra height and made her legs look really good. Before going out the door she had stopped to look at her reflection, and a memory she would have rather forgotten had drifted unbidden to the surface of her mind.

They had been due to meet the vicar about the service, but he was running late. There had been an emergency at the surgery, a fisherman with a hook embedded in his hand. These types of emergencies took a lot out of him, and he had shown up at her door crossed and out of sorts. To add insult to injury he abhorred being tardy, and had made of moue of displeasure when she had pulled on these very same boots, snapping they would slow them down on the village's uneven cobbled streets. She could have easily changed into flats but had been irked by his comment, retorting sharply, "These are fine, Martin." They had walked to the vicarage in silence, annoyed with each other and unable to find the words to calm the storm brewing between them.

The next stop was Victoria Station and she hastily gathered her belongings, stood and mumbled her excuses to the man sitting next to her. He looked up and said, "Louisa? Louisa Glasson?" She paused, her brow furrowed, trying to place a name to the face. "Sorry, do I know you?" she asked, glancing anxiously out the carriage window; the train was approaching the station and she was afraid missing her stop.

"It's Toby Steel. Danny's cousin? I know it's been a while, but I would have recognized you anywhere."

It came to her then, the graduation party given in honor of her on and off again boyfriend, Danny Steel. He had left with a first in architecture from Bath, and his mother had seen fit to mark her only son's crowning achievement by throwing an elaborate affair complete with caterers and a band. Family had traveled from far and wide for the occasion, well aware they would forever be shunned by the formidable Muriel Steel for failing to join in fawning over her special boy.

Louisa had been Danny's special guest, and she had the feeling he'd wanted to take up where they had left off before he left for uni. She had been of two minds about this, unsure if there had been anything of substance between them in the first place. He could be charming and witty but also spoiled and self-centered, and college hadn't changed him one bit. Not surprising, she had found herself alone, sipping a warm glass of chardonnay while Danny played the part of the golden boy coming home to roost, too busy soaking up the attention to pay her any mind.

Louisa had been more than a little miffed by his behavior, and had been about to make her excuses to Muriel when Toby had walked over with a glass of chilled pinot grigio. She had immediately been taken by his posh accent and studied casualness of his designer jeans and tight fitting shirt, and when he had asked her to dance she hadn't seen why not, considering the way Danny was treating her.

She had happily spent what was left of the evening in Toby's company. They had chatted easily about books and music, finding a shared love for the works of Neil Gaiman. By then she had lost track of how many glasses of wine she had drunk, and hadn't offered any resistance when Toby had pulled her behind the garden shed, slowly running his hands through her hair before kissing her. She had responded in kind, and had thought how lovely it was to be kissed until an elderly aunt had come looking for her wayward cocker spaniel.

They had sprung apart like too teenagers caught in the glare of the constable's torch. Louisa, realising she had been about to let a complete stranger have his way with her, had said something about needing to find the loo and had run to the house, locking herself in the nearest toilet. She had been truly appalled by her behavior, and after splashing cold water on her face, had regained enough of her composure to rejoin the party, now gathered around a blazing bonfire on the beach. There she had found Danny, sitting on a weathered log of drift wood, holding court. Toby had also joined the party, and had sat a ways from Louisa but had thrown her the occasional surreptitious glance filled with longing. Danny, possibly sensing something was awry, had clung to Louisa like an inebriated limpet until she had had enough and headed home before the party was over.

The next morning Louisa had called at the house to see Toby, wondering if the previous night's tryst would withstand the light of day, but he had already left for London. That had been ten years ago, and she hadn't heard from him except for the snippets of news passed on from Danny.

The carriage doors slid open, disgorging a rush of commuters and Louisa said, "Sorry, this is my stop."

"What do you know, it's mine as well," Toby answered, and his smile warmed his eyes, a deep chocolate brown flecked with bits of gold. She looked into them for a moment and felt a slow flush creep up her cheeks, as she remembered the last time she had been this close to him. Don't be a bloody fool, she thought, stepping onto the platform. But the bloom stayed on her cheeks as they slowly followed the crowd up the stairs and through the turnstiles leading to the station exit. There she paused and was about to wish him goodnight when Toby said, "Would you care to catch up over dinner? I know a small place not far from the station, nothing fancy but they do an excellent eggplant parmesan."

She hesitated while he looked at her expectantly. This was exactly what she had been hoping for, a real evening out as opposed to her failed forays down at the pub and leisure center. These hadn't worked out as planned, the pub too crowded to strike up a proper conversation and the leisure center mostly populated with toddlers and pensioners. But she felt uneasy with accepting his invitation, almost as if she was betraying the memory of what she once had with Martin.

Toby must have read her discomfiture for his face fell as he said, "Sorry. I should have known you had someone waiting for you. Maybe another time, then."

He turned to leave and she quickly said, "No, there's no one waiting for me. And yes, I would love to have dinner with you."

Again, that wonderful smiled lit up his eyes and they stepped out onto the pavement, the sound of rush hour traffic making conversation impossible. Lightly taking her arm, he deftly guided her through the crowd and she was suddenly glad to have accepted his invitation. After all, she was no longer beholden to anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

Chapter 3

_Martin_

It was morning, or what passed for morning on an early winter's day in Cornwall. Dawn had yet to crawl through the thick cloud cover pelting cold, hard rain against my bedroom window. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and groaned when it read only half past five. Still too early to get up, but from past experience I knew sleep would be a hard time coming. This had been the pattern of late; wake at first light and stare at the ceiling, my eye trailing the familiar web of fine lines caused by the old cottage settling on its foundation. I wondered if a builder should take a look at the cracked plaster, but I quickly shrugged off the idea. It was a sturdy little cottage, having withstood over a century of storms, two wars and alterations from previous owners who should have known better. Even though I suffered leaky windows, dodgy electrical and plumbing, I didn't care to have workmen tramp about my house. I was reclusive by nature, but of late I'd kept to myself more than usual.

My failure to marry Louisa had sent the village gossip mill into a tail spin of which it had yet to recover. There was no end to the pleasure these imbeciles derived from gabbing about my private affairs, I had taken to silencing anyone who dared bring up the subject with a stern look and a curt reminder it wasn't any of their business. This approach had worked just fine in the operating theater, and the registrar and nurses had known not to push their luck by asking after my weekend or plans for the evening. But the denizens of Portwenn were impervious to my hard looks and sharp tongue, and I hadn't been able to stop them from dawdling in my consulting room, hoping for a crumb or two of information that was then scurried to the hungry hordes like some kind of trophy.

After a while I decided to get up, realising there was no point in lying in bed ruminating about the inadequacies that made up the sum total of my life. I reached for the terry robe lying on the duvet and shoved my feet into the lambs' wool slippers next to the bed. The last had been a gift from Louisa a few weeks after our engagement, and I had been touched by her thoughtful generosity. I knew her teacher's salary was modest, and such a gift must have cost more than she could afford. But she had seen them in

Truro while shopping for whatever it was women shop for when they were to be married, and had bought them, insisting they would keep me warm on those cold winter mornings. They were nice and thick, made from the best shearling, and I padded across the room to pull aside the curtain covering the window. From this vantage point I could see the roof tops of the cottages below soaked to a dark grey in the unrelenting rain. Further afield was the sea, waves pounding against the cliff wall, the spray startling a flock of seagulls into flight; they soared over the village, their screams piercing the air like a shot, before settling back on the cliff's edge to be frightened once again into flight by the next wave. Wasn't this a definition for insanity – making the same mistakes over and over again all the while hoping for a different outcome?

I shivered inside my robe and slippers, the room colder than an ice box, the air rigid with frost. It had been a mistake coming to Cornwall after the onset of the panic attacks that had brought my surgical career to a grinding halt. Nothing good had come of it, other than providing me with a tedious and unrewarding living. And yet I stayed, even though there was nothing for me here, especially now that Louisa had gone.

Taking leave of this god forsaken place had crossed my mind many times over the past month, but I didn't know where I would go. London was out of the question – I couldn't practice as a lowly GP in a place where I had reigned as the city's best vascular specialist. The thought of starting over in a village such as this one was beyond depressing. I dallied with the idea of moving to Canada or even Australia, but I didn't like the cold and cared even less for venomous reptiles and insects. Anyhow I was an Englishman through and through, and couldn't possibly conceive living anywhere other than in Britain.

With a sigh I dropped the curtain and turned from the window, making my way to the lavatory before heading downstairs to make breakfast. I stopped to collect the paper from the front stoop, but as usual, it wasn't there. I shut the door, thinking it might be time to sign up for an electronic subscription when I noticed the message light blinking on the receptionist's answer phone. I hadn't recalled hearing the phone ring last night, but then again, I rarely paid attention to the surgery phone after hours - the answering service knew to reach me on my mobile if there was an emergency.

My hand hovered over the on switch, and for a brief moment, I hoped it might be a message from Louisa. But why would she contact me when I had not made any attempts of my own, other than the stilted email I had written and binned the night before?

I was being stupid, behaving like a lovelorn teenager, and I found myself hitting play with more force than was strictly necessary. The answerphone skidded across the desk, and I grabbed after it as Chris Parson's voice filled the empty reception. "Hey Mart, I know it's late but didn't have a chance to call you before, with getting the kids to bed and finishing up the agenda for the next PCT meeting. That's why I'm calling, to see if you plan on going. You know the meeting is in Truro this time around, and maybe we could go out for dinner afterwards. It'd be a good idea to catch up, and all that. Anyhow, let me know."

The call ended, and I stared at the phone, puzzled. Even though he was my oldest and arguably, only friend, we seldom saw each other except on official trust business. Most of our dealings were done by phone or email, usually when an irate patient complained about my lack of bedside manner. As head of the PCT, it was Chris' job to deal with such things, and I would receive a summary warning before ringing off with a reminder to submit the surgery's budget or patient census report. And so the invitation to dinner had come as a surprise, and I imagined his wife, a well-meaning but at times meddlesome sort of person, had put him up to it. "Do something about poor Martin," I imagined her saying while Chris acquiesced in the name of domestic harmony. I would decline of course, having no intention of sitting through a meal where we both skirted the mess that was my personal life while I silently listened to Chris natter on about his kids and the new round of NHS budget cuts.

I walk towards the kitchen, switching on lights as I went. It was still dark outside, and I doubted it would get much lighter, not with the fog and rain covering the village like a wet blanket. I went about making breakfast, pulling out the eggs and milk Joan had dropped off yesterday. Surgery had been in full swing then, and I had been grateful to have an excuse to avoid my aunt. Since the disastrous wedding day, she had taken to hovering about like a brooding hen, leaving casseroles in the fridge and asking how I was with uncharacteristic solicitousness. This was starting to drive me mad, and although I knew she was trying to be helpful, all I wanted was to be left alone.

But a village GP was rarely left alone, and as the eggs went on the boil and the espresso machine gurgled happily, there came a sharp rap on the surgery's front door.

"What on earth…" I muttered, turning off the flame from under eggs, wondering what on I'd find on my stoop at this early hour. I dried my hands with a tea towel while walking down the hallway and through the reception. There came another sharp rap along with, "Doc! Are you there Doc? My mate here is in a bad way!"

At my doorstep was the fisherman with the asthma – the one who never took his inhalers correctly- with another fisherman I'd seen around the village but who had never come to the surgery for care. His right hand was wrapped in a grimy oilskin, blood pooling down his arm and dripping on the flagstones. I quickly averted my gaze but open the door wider and motioned for them to come in, all the while taking slow, deliberate breaths through my mouth. The stench of blood and mangled flesh mixed with diesel and day old fish was overpowering, and I tried not to gag as I directed them to my consulting room.

"Watch the rug," I managed to say between clenched teeth. But it was too late; the wound was oozing at a steady clip and the fisherman left a trail of dark stains in his wake.

"Can't help it, Doc," grimaced the injured man as he climb on the examination couch. His mate took a seat, his grimy mac leaving a film of muck on the leather backed chair reserved for visitors. Both looked at me expectantly, and I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation - here I was, in my dressing gown and slippers, holding a tea towel in one hand, expected to clean up this mess before I'd even had breakfast.

I glared at the patient, "You stay still and keep your hand elevated. And you," I said, pointing to the grimy fishermen mucking up my chair, "keep an eye on him. I'll be back."

Turning, I headed out of the room and up the stairs to get dressed. It was the start of just another day in bloody Portwenn.


End file.
